Perfume
by Stardust24601
Summary: There's a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life. 2029; 15 years after Mary and John's wedding, the twenty-first century sleuth still has dangerous rivals. Join Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson on another one of their whimsical, crime-related adventures. Sherlock's enemy is back. But now, he has one more person to protect. Eventual Johnlock.
1. Prologue

A large cumulonimbus engulfed Heathrow Airport with its shadow.

John stood there, unblinking, simply staring at his best man- his best friend. He could simply _not _believe it. Sure, he'd killed a lot of people. Serving in the army had its disadvantages... even if, for the most part, John had been a docor. He'd shot that cabbie, hadn't he? Shame he couldn't include _that_ in the post... He wouldn't deny it, no. But thanks to a consulting detective and a red shock blanket, he'd avoided the court case. After that, they went to a Chinese, as if nothing big had just happened. 'A Study in Pink,' he'd called that case. Of course, his 'flatmate' just had to comment on his capitalization for the word 'pink' in the title, and the necessity of that word. John had simply told him that the use of the adjective was necessary, seeing as Jenny (the dead woman) had been clad in a frankly alarming shade of pink.

Oh, the memories made tears spring to John's eyes, which settled their stormy gaze on the small private jet that was to take the world's only consulting detective into exile, on a six-month mission- a one-way ticket without a promising return. Deep inside, the doctor was fighting a losing battle against human nature. He was also battling the impulse to punch his friend in the face and to hug him at the same time.

An image of Magnussen's blood decorating the front porch of Appledore flashed through his mind. He pushed it away and focused on the man who stood, an irritating head higher, in front of him.

Sherlock's face was relaxed, an unreadable expression of beyond-calmness. His watery, light-blue eyes that usually reflected a childish and mischievous attitude seemed off-putting, somehow... as if something were slightly wrong about that gaze- it was like the vacant a piercing stare of an abandoned marionette. What was it that he saw within those azure irises? Regret? Most likely not, knowing Sherlock. Sadness? Anger? Annoyance, relief? It was impossible to tell.

From the airport runway, the pilot yelled over at them that they had five minutes left to say goodbye. John barely heard him- but his previous flat mate, of course, with his bloodhound-like senses, heard. "Well then." For once, it seemed to John as if words were failing Sherlock.

"Well What?" If only Sherlock were being the same bastard he had been in the bomb incident under Westminster Abbey. If only it were all a joke.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his expression unchanged, as if he were a block of painted alabaster, and someone had etched in that unnerving, calm _look_ that only appeared on Sherlock's high-cheekboned face.

"It's a girl. We took the test two days ago," John continued, attempting at making conversation.

"I know."

"No you don't," John replied, and felt a sudden warmth spread through him.

"Now I do," Sherlock said, and John was somewhat relieved to see the detective's mouth curl up at the corners. Dr. Watson had nothing to say to that. "You see, it _is_ simple grammar. Had I said, _I knew_, as opposed to _I know_, you would have correctly assumed that I didn't know beforehand, therefore implicating tha-"

"Sherlock, shut up." John was on the brink of laughing. It felt like this whole _exile-for-six-moths _drama was really just a joke.

Sherlock Holmes adjusted the scarf around his neck as a current of Londonian, autumn air passed through them. "Oh yes, and before I forget- Sherlock is actually a girl's name," he added, a familiar tone of fibbing smugness in his voice.

John snorted loudly. "Oh no. There is _no way_ we are naming our daughter after you."

Sherlock chuckled, the skin around his face crinkling up like it did when he smiled broadly, then extended a hand. His countenance turned serious. John took the ofered hand and shook it- without a word- for none was needed. And that was that.

John stayed standing there as he watched the jet ascend into the sky. That could make a good blog post. _Emptiness,_ he thought. What would it mean, though? How could he- put it into words? To go for six months or more, without seeing that sleuth? Without going on a case? Without playing cluedo? No more smiley faces on Mrs Hudson's walls, no more hearing Sherlock playing the violin in 221B Baker Street, no more heads in the fridge or eyeballs in tea. It would mean more visits to Ella's. Their last appointment, however, hadn't gone terribly well.

"I am _so_ sorry, darling. I know how hard it must be for you." Mary lay a gentle hand on his arm. John didn't waste his breath trying to convince her he was alright, because in truth, he wasn't. Dr Watson did not respond. He just watched the jet grow smaller, the casket of metal that carried the second person he loved the most in the world.

A vibration in his pocket startled John out of his thoughts. He flipped open the mobile phone, the engraving of _To Harry from Clara xxx _still detectable under his fingers.

"Oh, the _BASTARD._" John muttered furiously, and he was unsure whether he ought to smile or not as he felt his heart flutter.

"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 1:

Rᴏʙᴇʀᴛ Bʀᴏᴏᴋᴇ ɪs ʙᴀᴄᴋ. Bᴀᴋᴇʀ Sᴛ. Nᴏᴡ.

SH"

And John watched incredulously as the Jet turned around in mid-air and started its descent back on the runway of Heathrow airport.


	2. Fifteen and a half years later

**Anne**

"Anne. Such a placid name. Why, why, _why?_"

"How should _I _know? Mary and John are common names, too. Perhaps they wanted to keep the tradition going. The tradition of common names."

"Or perhaps John simply lacked imagination."

"What makes you say that?" I asked, as I poured myself a cup of tea.

"I once asked him what he might say in his last moments, if he was about to die and he knew it." I assumed it had something to do with the earlier ludictrous adventures of my father and his companion.

Nevertheless, my brow furrowed in confusion. "And?" I asked, clamping my phone between my ear and shoulder as I reached in the cupboard for a sugar cube. Unsurprisingly, we were out, but then again my father never takes sugar with anything. How he does it, I have no clue. "What did he say?"

"He replied; 'please, God, let me live.'" His voice beheld amusement as it wandered out of the speaker; I had to smile.

"Well, what were you expecting?" I laughed.

"I don't know," came the reply.

"Well, that's something new," I snorted. I checked my watch- and almost swore. I had things to do before dad came home and I hadn't even started on a thing. "I have to run!" I coughed, as if trying to cover up an imaginary slip-up.

"Alright, then. Shoo."

"Bye." I grinned at the reciever, then hung up with a sigh, and rushed to my bedroom. It was, as usual, a downright mess. I scowled at the floor, which was scattered with clothes and books, some of which lay open at certain pages. Hurriedly I stuffed all my dirty clothes into a laundry basket which I stole from my parents' room, and made makeshift bookmarks out of tissues, which I stuck into each of the books before closing them.

My school-bag lay forgotten and open in a corner, something which I wouldn't be touching again until the week-end was over. The doorbell suddenly rang, a shrill, irritating sound which could only mean one thing. I pressed the speaker button. "Hello?"

"It's me. Buzz me in, will you? I forgot my keys." I rolled my eyes and did as he asked. I piled up all of my books after that and shoved them against the wall before throwing myself on my bed, with my cup of tea on my night-stand withing arm's reach. I grabbed _Perfume_ off the top of one of the piles of books and flipped it open to its bookmark. The book was well-used, with ruffled corners, despite the fact that I had taped its cover corners when I bought it.

"Anne?" My father's voice rang out as I heard the front door slam shut. "Will you make me a cup of coffee?"

I let out an irritated groan and stalked to the living room, _Perfume _still in my hand. "You couldn't just do it yourself, could you?" I said as I set the novel down and opened up the coffee machine.

"I've been working since five this morning at Bart's, Anne, don't chastize me." I ignored the fact that he'd been away for fourteen hours.

"What do you want? Black, mild or brown?" I asked him as I opened up the cupboard. Little round capsules of _Nespresso _coffee greeted me.

"Black, please. No milk, no sugar."

"I _know _you don't take sugar," I took down a capsule and jammed it into the machine before setting it _en route_. "Small wonder we've got none at home."

"What was that?" Dad said, typing away at his laptop. He sat on the couch, writing up a report- no doubt something for his patients- and the television was on, BBC News playing.

I didn't reply to his question, but set the cup of coffee down in front of him. "You're welcome," I said in a smarmy manner.

"Thank you, dear." With that, I whirled away and shut myself into my room, with only my strange array of books and my cup of tea to keep me company. From the living room, I heard nothing but the voice of the weather reporter accompanied by the furious clicking of the Doctor John Watson's keyboard.


	3. A long-winded report

**John**

_Report Number twenty-one, nine thirty p.m, Central time._

_St Bartholomew's Hospital, London_

_Patient Name:_

John Watson stared blankly at the blinking text-bar that would allow him to type in his patients' name. With a groan he stretched and helped himself to a long drink of coffee, his mind as empty as the document that lay in front of him. He put his fingers back on the key and tried to think of something to write. He couldn't remember his patients' name… Perhaps he ought to go to Bart's again… but it was already too late, and Mary would be coming home soon.

John sighed deeply, his brow creasing. Already, the frown lines of a man of fifty were tainting his face. Then again, John was nearing that age. The abrupt welcoming of his daughter had surprised him, however, and as he sat there, in front of the empty fireplace, he found his mind wandering over to her. Anne Sherley Watson. She looked so much like her mother. They had the same blue eyes, the same nose, the same little quirky smile. John saw himself in her, too, but more in personality. They both had that uncontrollable trait of suddenly exploding into anger... as well as the ability to hold a grudge for an unnecessary amount of time. John could only presume that Anne, today, had still not gotten over the fact that her father had forced Mary to make her middle name Sherley. Sometimes, the doctor wondered why he ever bothered to listen to what Sherlock said. The man was a genius, yes, but not when it came to compassion. Well, for the most time.

The next time he looked at his watch, it read 10:15. John swore loudly as he heard the door open and close, followed by the clinging sound of multiple keys and the irritating rustle of _Waitrose _plastic bags. "Mary?" He asked, shutting the lid of his laptop. "Is that you?"

Mary walked into the living room after donning her shoes, her blonde hair ruffled from outside. "Hello, darling-" She interrupted herself by landing a small but passionate kiss on her husband's lips. With that, she sat herself down beside him.

"Why were you out so late?" He chided, putting an arm around her and holding her close as she laid her head on his shoulder. "You know I worry."

"Oh, John, you're a hopeless romantic," Mary teased him, tickling his chin lightly. "I went out shopping when I remembered we had no more milk or cheese left."

"Mary," he reprimanded her, "you should have called me. I would've gone to get it."

She chuckled, a light, musical sound that made John smile. "It was on the way home, darling, don't make such a fuss about it. How are your reports coming along?" Her fingers traced the stitching of the beige couch.

"Fine," he lied, sighing. "They're coming along great."

Mary's tone was doubtful when she let out a sound. "Mhmmm. Right. You get onto that, and I'll put the shopping away- and when I'm finished, you've got to stop working for _once, John Watson_, or I _will_ take your bloody laptop away." She kissed his cheek and marched off into the kitchen.

"Mary-" he protested, but she was gone before he could say anything more. John massaged his temples with his fingers, and screwed his eyes shut before clearing his mind and getting back to the report. "Right," he muttered. "Patient Name, Jacqueline Marie Grant." His fingers skipped over the keyboard. "Age, forty-two. Medical condition, severe epilepsy…"


	4. A thousand words

**Anne**

"Anne! Wakey-wakey, rise and shine!" I hear a ferocious knocking on my door and bolt upright. The world tilts violently as I do so, and I put my head between my hands to steady my perception on the world. "You've got school in an hour! Get moving!"

"Coming, mum," I say groggily and practically roll out of bed. _Perfume _lands on top of my head as I fall to the floor, pulling the covers with me. I _knew _I shouldn't have stayed up until one o'clock reading by torchlight underneath the covers just to finish the book. It had me intoxicated, and more than once had kept me awake out of fear that some serial killer would come and get me. Of course, the chances were incredibly slim, and no killer was going to come and cut me up to create the right, lustful perfume.

Then again, these reassuring thoughts didn't usually accompany me when I went to sleep… I drag myself over to my closet as I stand up, and start pulling on my uniform. Twice I had to put my socks on, for I mixed up my sense of left and right due to my lack of sleep. Once I had everything on, I sit on my bed and begin to pack my school bag with the necessary things; pencil-case, ruler, English notebook, history textbook and notebook, art sketchbook, and science textbook. Oh-yes. And another book. I select one randomly off my stack of books in the corner and slip it into my back with a limp hand.

After that, I lean back on my palms and pondered life for awhile, whereupon I fall asleep again.

"_Anne Sherley Watson_!" The yell comes from outside the door again. I rub my eyes and looked hatefully at the time. _7:40 am, _I read… and mentally swear.

"Oh, god," I say, and sling my back over my shoulder, grab my laptop in one hand, and burst out of the door. I hurry over to the fridge, snatch up and apple, and don't bother closing any door I open after that.

"Sorry- sorry, mum-" I say as I pass her, kiss her cheek and then trample down the stairs, my heart occasionally skipping a beat when I think about tripping up and falling down nine flights.

Eli complained to me the whole trip to the Science Museum. I bluntly agreed to pretty much everything she had to say.

"I can _not_ believe that he's given us another!" She exclaims.

"Shh, Eli!" I hiss. "People are staring."

"Let them!" She was feisty when she was enraged. At the moment… well. She seems a tad bit more than just enraged to me. "One thousand words! One thousand _bloody _words and not even three weeks to write it." I don't respond but with a sigh, and she grabs me by my shoulders. "Anne! I'm going to fail history. I swear. I'm going to fail it."

I have to laugh at that. "Eli, shut up. You're going to fail history as much as I'm going to fail English."

We had come upon a mutual agreement that I was an outstanding student when it came to English. Eli probably only puts up with it because she's my friend.

"Nah." She's looking doubtful, but there's something off about it. Something… malicious.

"You know you aren't going to fail it," I laugh as we climb off the red double-decker.

"I might."

"Shut up." I give her a light punch in the arm, and after that she _does _shut up about her failing history.

She's still muttering, "_One thousand words, one thousand bloody words,_" as we enter the Science Museum.

"Eli, focus." I turn to the receptionist. "Oh- uhm, two tickets for the microbiology four D show, please."

He types it in. "Have you got a student pass?"

"Yep- hold on- here, hold this." I shove my laptop into Eli's arms before she can protest and pull out a twenty-pound note and my student card, which reads: _Anne Sherley Watson, DOB: 07/12/2014. _I hand both to the receptionist, who scans it wand says, "that'll be eighteen pounds, please." He's smirking as he hands me back the card and the change, and it unsettles me deeply. There's something off about that smile…

"Come on." Eli grabs the tickets off the counter and pulls me past him, handing me back my laptop.


	5. Arrangements

**John**

The air was chilled outside as John stepped out of his apartment and onto the busy streets of London. Sales for Christmas were already going up on shop vitrines, he noticed as he walked by Marks and Spencer's. Anne's holidays were coming up soon enough, he knew; once she had taken her half-year exams for year eleven, it was practically 'good-bye school' for a month. He had suggested to Mary they go somewhere out of the country for Christmas, but his wife had simply said it would be too expensive. John knew that was not the case, however; a trip to Scotland or Wales would not have cost too much.

So he had blatantly agreed and suggested they go to visit Harry. It was not to his surprise when Mary retaliated with a sincere lecture on how letting their fifteen-year old daughter meet her drunk and lesbian aunt for the first time at Christmas was a bad idea. John hadn't seen Harriet for almost ten years, now, and to be frank he did not miss his sister in the least. They had arranged that the best would be to go to Baker Street for Christmas. Anne had only been there around four times, simply because John feared for her safety when he went over to Sherlock's for helping the detective solve his cases.

John breathed in the cool air, and it helped clear his mind. _Brrrtt. Brrt. _With a sigh, he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen on his phone read:

"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 1:

Lᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ғᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

SH"

"How…?!" John breathed. Sherlock and his odd mind would never fail to impress him. The instrument vibrated in his hand again.

"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 2:

Mᴀᴋᴇ sᴜʀᴇ sʜᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴏʀɪɴɢ.

SH"

The war hero smiled to himself and replied with: "Sʜᴇ ɪsɴ'ᴛ, I ᴀssᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

JW"

"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 3:

Exᴄᴇʟʟᴇɴᴛ.

SH"

John mounted the bus that would take him to Sloane Square, making sure to tap his Oyster card as he went. He remembered he had once forgotten to do so, and the consequences for that were not pretty. Dr. Watson observed the crowded streets as the double-decker rolled through London. At long last, the large Peter Jones near Sloane Square came into view. John swiped his Oyster casually as he left the bus, and entered the huge shopping center. He had some Christmas shopping to do.

"Cufflinks- nope. Tie clips? No… A deerstalker? Sherlock'd kill me…" John wandered the aisles, without the faintest idea what to get Sherlock for Christmas. John chewed his lip before rubbing his nose subconsciously.

If he found nothing, he'd let the girls choose something for Sherlock… though it probably wasn't his best option. He'd already bought Greg a gift; silver cufflinks and a Christmas jumper, but buying for the younger Holmes brother was a challenge. At _least _he had Mary's council when it came to spending money, and knew that she'd find something very fitting for both Molly and their daughter.

It was already dinnertime by the time John returned. He'd spent the whole day out in the shops, and needed a break from money for the time being. He unlocked the door of their flat to see his wife and Anne already seated at the dinner table. "Mmmm," he said, as he took in a deep breath, "is that roast lamb and mashed potatoes I smell?" Mary looked up from serving his plate to smile at him. "How was your day, John?"

He cleared his throat as he hung up his coat. "Good. Yep- fine." He kissed the top of his daughter's head before kissing Mary and sitting down. John picked up his cutlery and began to eat.

**Anne**

I watched my father take a seat at the table, and I managed a smile. I had been unusually quiet today, and heavens be good, I think I was just being paranoid over the man's odd smile towards me today, at the science museum.

"How was your day, Anne?" Dad's voice sounded distant in my head.

"What?" I looked at him, before finally grasping hold of the question asked. "Oh- it was fine. The usual." I looked back down at my plate and cut myself a thin slice off my piece of lamb. It was tender and would have tasted delicious on any other day… but today, I couldn't concentrate.

"Hmm," He nodded. "How was the science museum?"

"Fine."

"Did you learn anything? I hope I didn't pay twenty pounds for nothing," he said, his tone inquisitive.

I knew it would be best to elaborate and tell him I did. "Clostridium Botulinum toxin. You know, diluted form of Botox, virtually undetectable…" I trailed off, realizing he was smiling. "What?"

"Funny, that. Sherlock and I once had a case revolving around that very poison. Was it interesting?"

"Yes."

"Good." John spooned a bit of mashed potato in his mouth.

Meanwhile, mum had been eating in silence, listening to our conversation. "Anne," she began.

I looked at her oddly. "Yes, mum?"

"Does something trouble you?"

_Crap. _I thought. "No." I replied, abruptly. I suddenly stood up. "I- I think I'm going to go to bed. May I be excused?"

My father looked up and set down his cutlery in blank surprise as I stood. "No, Anne. No, you may not be excused." His greenish-grey eyes were stern and commanding, and he assumed a stiff sitting position. "Sit back down, please."

"I have to do homework!" I protested.

"I believe you just said you were going to bed. Sit." He ordered, and I had no choice but to oblige. He leaned over toward me slightly. "Listen, Anne," he said, with a sigh, "I want you to be happy, and if anything at all is doing the opposite, you have got to tell me, understood?" He said.

I simply glared at him irritably across the table. His eyes narrowed, and he would have surely become outwardly angry had my mum not interfered. "Anne, honey, please. We want the best for you, so please, tell us."

What could I tell them? I was fine… they would surely not comprehend my worry. "Everything's fine. I just had a stressful da at school."

I heard my father sigh in exasperation. "Anne, go. Get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. I don't want you stressed before exams."

"Thank you." I felt bad about lying to both of them, but some things just had to be done…

Once in my room, I stripped and changed into my pajamas, all the while thinking. Slowly, I fished around in the pockets of my blazer and uniform skirt for anything that could get caught up in the wash. My hands brushed against something and I pulled it out. It was my ticket to the microbiology film. I flipped it over, and remarked something I had not seen before.

A small number _25 _was inked on the back of the ticket with a black ballpoint pen. I swallowed hard, and hoped it had nothing whatsoever to do with _Perfume._


End file.
